Where's the gent I want ?" The bartender had fenced for time as long as possible.
"Over there," he said, and pointed.
It was a slender fellow sitting at a table in a corner of the long room, his sombrero pushed back on his head.

He was playing solitaire and his back was towards Jerry Strann, who now made a brief survey, hitched his cartridge belt, and approached the stranger with a grin.

The man did not turn; he continued to lay down his cards with monotonous regularity, and while he was doing it he said in the gentlest voice that had ever reached the ear of Jerry Strann: "Better stay where you are, stranger.
My dog don't like you." And Jerry Strann perceived, under the shadow of the table, a blacker shadow, huge and formless in the gloom, and two spots of incandescent green twinkling towards him.

He stopped; he even made a step back; and then he heard a stifled chuckle from the bartender.
If it had not been for that untimely mirth of O'Brien's probably nothing of what followed would have passed into the history of the Three B's..